Master of Love (2 page)

“I was content to sit with
The Times,
” Mr. Claremont said, “but the ladies wanted a peek. Hope that's all right with you, Rexton.”

“By all means.” His lordship swept an arm across the expanse of the library. “Take a look around. We recently received in a few new books.”

The other woman, a brown-haired and rather somber contrast to her peacock-splendid companion, widened her eyes. “Good gracious, Rex! I should think ‘a few' is rather an understatement. What is all this hodgepodge?”

Callista recognized their voices and placed this second lady as the sharper-tongued one leading the charge against her. Her breath hitched in her throat. Did they intend to make a scene right here in front of Lord Rexton?

“Sir George, my mother's brother, who lives on the coast north of Norwich, decided his library would be better off in my hands,” Rexton replied. “He's spent a lifetime building this collection and is still in fine health but insisted on sending it to me anyway. Uncle George is a crafty old badger, so I suspect he has his reasons. The trunks arrived last week.”

Callista watched him gaze around the room with apparent delight and wondered with some surprise at his enthusiasm for the books. It wasn't what she expected from a man of his reputation.

The blonde cast a speculative glance at Callista. “And is this the librarian who came with them?”

Rexton turned toward Callista and urged her forward with a hand at her elbow. She stepped up but sidled away from his light grip. “Yes—my apologies,” he said. “Ladies, may I present Miss Higginbotham? She is indeed a book dealer and library organizer and comes on the recommendation of Sir George.”

Her heart beat a loud staccato in her ears as she curtsied to the ladies, learning that the sharp-tongued Leticia was Lady Vaughnley and Anna, the beautiful blonde, Lady Barrington. To her relief, neither said anything untoward, although their gazes were appraising and their greetings cool.

Lord Rexton widened the circle to include his older guest, who was wandering about and bending over to examine titles on book spines with great interest. “Charles, didn't you say you knew Miss Higginbotham?”

“It was your father with whom I had an acquaintance, my dear.” Mr. Claremont came over and bowed. “A fine man. I was aggrieved to learn of his death last winter.”

She dipped her head, horrified by a sudden sting of tears. Her father's death had been over a year ago, but the day's stress seemed to be bringing her emotions close to the surface. Luckily, Mr. Danvers was leading Lord Rexton away to examine the Greek tragedies. She didn't want the viscount to see her so easily overwrought, especially when his presence only rattled her further.

“Thank you, Mr. Claremont,” she said, clearing her throat. “Was your acquaintance through my father's book sales? I know he had dealings with several members of the Philosophical Society.”

“Yes, he often came to our meetings before he moved to the Continent, and he continued to obtain rare and foreign books for members when we weren't able to find them in the shops here. He provided invaluable service for numerous gentlemen-scholars, including Sir George. I shouldn't be surprised if many of these”—Mr. Claremont nodded toward the collection—“came to Sir George through your father. I'm delighted to see you continuing his work.”

“It's ‘the Honorable' Miss Higginbotham, isn't it?” Lady Barrington interjected, looking Callista over in a way that set her nerves on alert.

“Yes, my father came into his title near the end of his life, when the barony passed to him after the death of a cousin.” The ladies had already sniffed out this information, of course, but were apparently after more details. Hare to their hound, Callista braced herself for the subtle but deadly interrogation of a pair of society ladies bent on flushing out the latest gossip.

“How nice for your family,” Lady Barrington said coolly.

Callista smiled tightly and replied as little as she could while they questioned her about her family background and her father's barony. At least they were civil, although she was sure their restraint had more to do with a desire for information and the current status they all shared as guests under Lord Rexton's roof—and nothing at all with any charity toward her.

Her father's title still roused painful feelings. She supposed it was unfair, but she couldn't help but trace the unraveling of their comfortable life in Paris back to that day when the packet of legal documents arrived from the London solicitors. Her father had determined to take seriously the duties of his new title in the House of Lords and moved the family back home to London. The stress of the inheritance, however, took a serious toll on his gentle nature, and his health started to fail rapidly. He'd lived barely a year after their return.

“But why do you seek to continue your father's work?” Lady Vaughnley asked, brows raised. “Why thrust yourself into the business world at all? It's hardly a fitting way for a young lady to spend her time.”

Heat flamed in Callista's cheeks. “I work, as I suspect most do, ma'am, in order to keep my household.”

“Have you no male in the family to take care of such matters?” It seemed incredible to the lady, and shameful, that a woman could be in such a situation.

“I'm afraid not. And, as a matter of fact”—Callista lifted her chin, prodded by some hopeless rebel demon—“I like working with books.”

Lady Vaughnley drew back stiffly. “Well! You must be quite the bluestocking and very . . . intrepid.” Her lip curled over what were clearly
not
terms indicating her approval.

Mr. Claremont's jovial smile showed him oblivious to the frosty tone of the exchange. “Actually, Lady Barrington is dearly fond of books herself,” he said, turning toward that lady. “I recall the late Lord Barrington often credited you for helping him with those excellent travel volumes he published.”

“Not with writing or selling them, certainly,” the lady trilled, throwing a smug glance at Callista. “If anything, I was merely the muse.”

Callista felt her prickliness overwhelm her at what a poor church mouse she was in comparison to the ladies and Lord Rexton. Their discussion of her courtesy title rang with mockery in her ears. These were people born to the aristocracy who had enjoyed wealth and never had to work in their lives. Her father's title had been the lowest of the peerage and one of recent creation that carried with it no land or income. The title had gone extinct at his death, as of course neither she nor her sister could inherit, and not even a distant male heir existed to take it up. All it left her was the right to call herself “the Honorable.” Her great-aunt Lady Mildred, daughter of a duke herself, had insisted she print the honorific on her calling cards. To Callista, however, it made her feel all the more an imposter waiting to get caught—not a real book dealer or daughter of a peer, but only a young woman who loved to read, a commoner fallen from the ranks whose family now tottered on a dangerous edge of genteel poverty.

Mr. Danvers seemed to sense her discomfort and came to her rescue. “How is the task proceeding, Miss Higginbotham?”

She forced a smile in his direction. “So far I've done a preliminary review of his lordship's existing collection and opened a half dozen of Sir George's trunks.”

The portly Mr. Claremont eyed the expanse scattered across the library and rubbed his hands like a boy in a sweets shop. “With your permission, Miss Higginbotham? I'd love to have a look.”

The acknowledgment of her modicum of authority made her feel somewhat better. She knew she had to get over this sense of being a play-actor in her father's shoes, but it was hard. So much these days was just so hard.

At her murmured “Of course,” Mr. Claremont and the two women wandered off toward Lord Rexton among the stacks. Lady Barrington cast her a chilly smile, but Lady Vaughnley moved on without a backward glance and began to pick up books with desultory attention. Her puzzled query drifted back toward Callista: “What in the world, Rex, do you plan to do with so many books? Surely you're not interested in such a collection?”

Although Callista guessed she and Lady Vaughnley shared little else in common, she had to admit that she wondered about this point as well. It pushed credulity that Lord Rexton, this perfect specimen of masculinity, enjoying the reputation of Master of Love that he did, spent his evenings tucked away in his library curled up with a book.

Feeling far out of her league, Callista turned toward Rexton's secretary. “The volumes are very mixed inside each trunk, Mr. Danvers. The classics are with French poetry, and German philosophy with English science texts. Sir George must have shelved them quite haphazardly.” Truth be told, the task already daunted her.

“Will it pose a problem for you?” that deep voice purred in her ear. Lord Rexton had left his guests to come up behind her. Before she could move away, he leaned closer to tuck in some wisps escaping her looped side braids. He ran his hand boldly down her neck, as if for good measure.

“My lord!” She jumped and barely kept herself from batting at the man's hand. Whatever did he think he was about, taking such liberties! Her neck tingled with a trail of fire where he'd touched her. She risked a quick peek at him, but even that glimpse was enough to flood her senses with height and heat, spicy male scent, slashing cheekbones, that ridiculous golden curl, and a far-too-confident teasing smile. Goodness, this man made her nervous. She rubbed a hand against her neck to erase his touch. “There is no problem,” she said rather breathlessly, with far more conviction than she felt. “The task will merely take some time.”

“We can assign a footman to help with unpacking and sorting the books,” Mr. Danvers offered. There was something of a warning in the look he leveled at his employer.

“That won't be necessary,” she replied, looking between the two men. “Billy can help with that part. He's our . . . footboy.” She hesitated only a fraction of a second but felt nevertheless the sharpening of Lord Rexton's gaze.

“And where is this Billy now?” Rexton asked, raising one perfectly arched brow.

“Your butler invited him down to the kitchens less than a half hour ago. He'd been working hard all morning and had unpacked quite a few trunks.” She hated the anxious note in her voice. Billy was certainly allowed a cup of tea, and she was allowed to permit him his rest. A pang of longing struck her for some measure of the professional confidence her father's sterling credentials and experience had granted him. Actually, she
desperately
wished she could simply curl up at home with a good book and a pot of tea herself. But she needed this job. And her family's finances dictated she must succeed at it.

Her fingers clenched into her palms on a wave of painful pride. She'd do what she had to.

She felt Lord Rexton's eyes lingering on her and kept her own safely averted. He surprised her then by inquiring in a mild tone, “Will you join me and my guests for luncheon, Miss Higginbotham?”

“Oh no, thank you.” She drew a breath she hoped didn't sound too shaky. Taking luncheon with the harpies was the last thing she wanted; they'd pick out her eyes before the meat course and make it seem they were only inquiring after her health. “I plan to dive right into my task. Perhaps I could take a tray here.”

“If you insist; however, I was hoping I could persuade you,” Rexton said. “I'd like to discuss the library collection with you.”

She blinked, sufficiently taken aback to risk another glance at him. She hadn't expected either to be dining with the viscount and his guests or that this quintessence of male splendor would care to talk seriously about his books. Either way, she didn't seem to have a choice. “In that case, my lord, of course I should be happy to accept your invitation.”

She noted Lady Barrington narrowed her eyes as she followed their conversation from across the room. Something displeased and proprietary in the lady's gaze made Callista wonder whether this sophisticated widow was his current lover. But Lady Barrington said nothing, merely favoring her with another frosty smile.

“Until later then, Miss Higginbotham.” Rexton took Callista's hand again and bowed over it. When he ran his fingers lightly across her palm before releasing it, she had to forcibly repress the shiver of reaction that gripped her. The man was all leonine grace and seduction incarnate, smiling artlessly up at her from his bow as if daring her to make a fuss. He even had the audacity to add a wink—blast the man!

“The weather being so fine,” he said, continuing innocently, “I think we'll take a turn about the gardens before luncheon, but I'll send Danvers to fetch you to the drawing room for sherry when the rest of the guests arrive.”

With a few more words all around, Lord Rexton gathered his guests and secretary, and the elegant company swept from the library.

Callista sighed her relief.

She'd survived her first meeting with Lord Rexton. Against her expectation, she admitted she found herself curious about this notorious “Lord Adonis.” Part of her almost looked forward to luncheon—although only
almost,
she thought with a shudder. Negotiating high-society table conversation with ladies plotting her ruin was definitely not among her talents.

Who exactly was this viscount? The gentleman was not at all as she'd anticipated, although she was unsure whether it was his ludicrous blinding beauty or baffling apparent interest in books that threw her more for a loop.

His lips came to mind, with their lush sinful curve—no man should look like that. While it wasn't precisely his fault he was as handsome as a Greek god of antiquity, she quite loathed the visceral effect he triggered in her senses. Her core of honesty, however, forced up the thought that she perhaps more correctly feared this effect, as she'd never before encountered a man whose sheer physical presence so unsettled her.